The late September thunderstorm drizzles gray on dark pavement.
The wind physically throws a tantrum of plants, chimes screaming alarm.
The trees relieve themselves of dead branches onto accumulated decayed leaves.
Darkness portends a bitter battle but refuses to acknowledge the calm.
The cars slide by with deeper tone, like a man’s voice taking over a woman’s.
The blinds clap merrily against the windows as I rush to keep dry beds.
The thunder is unexpected, rumbling like bowels filled with beans and broccoli.
A flash, a roll, a grumbling of disturbed pressure pockets, then wet, dripping, silence.